


Girls' Night Out

by vienn_peridot



Series: Webs 'Verse [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU: Webs 'Verse, Fluff, Friendship, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:20:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2138502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is NOT a date.</p><p>Maggie and Mikaela are NOT wingmen. Or chaperones. Or anything of the sort.</p><p>This is a Cultural Exchange Opportunity, understand?!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Invitation: Jazz and Prowl

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Playing the Long Odds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573301) by [Bibliotecaria_D](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D). 



> The blame for this fic falls squarely at the feet of Bibliotecaria_D.  
> Their fic 'Playing the Long Odds' spawned the plotbunny that became this fic, as well as being inspiration for both The Track and Prowl's Battle Computer causing serious Issues when he tries to be friends/more than friends with someone in the greater Webs 'Verse.
> 
> This piece of Gratuitous Fluff is set in the same universe as 'Spiderwebs', earlier in the timeline than the acutal 'Spiderwebs' fic. (I really need Gratuitous Fluff right now.)
> 
> Apologies for any grammar screw-ups. This has only had my tired eyes on it.

::Comm Speak::

#  The Invitation : Jazz and Prowl

 

 

 

::Hey Prowler. Ya busy?::

 

The unexpected comm broke into Prowl’s awareness with the subtlety of an air raid siren. Doorwings flicked up and down, expressing irritation to an empty room.

 

::You commed me during office hours, Jazz. _Of course_ I’m busy::

 

Some of the irritation leaked over into the Tactician’s voice, but that was only to be expected. Now that the Autobots had an alliance with the dominant sapient species of the world, Prowl’s workload had taken a sharp increase. Dealing with a mixed-species army unit was the special kind of Pit he wished he’d never gotten the chance to experience.

 

::Yeah. Silly question, Ah know. Gotta klick?::

 

Prowl rolled his shoulders, considering the question. Hydraulics throughout his arms and torso complained at the prolonged lack of movement they’d been subjected to as he weighed his options.

 

Judging by how unrepentantly cheerful the TIC sounded if Prowl didn’t let him get this off his chest _now_ then he would assuredly be getting pings and text messages several times an hour until the end of his shift. That would slow him up more and create a greater desire to throttle his fellow office than a brief conversation now would do.

 

Having made his decision, Prowl placed the datapad he was working on back on his desk with a definitive click and braced himself to bite the proverbial bullet.

 

::You have five minutes, Jazz. What is it?::

 

He could practically feel the Saboteur’s glee at his easy success from clear across the Ark. It definitely carried over their commlink, making Prowl’s lips twitch in what was definitely NOT a smirk at Jazz’s predictability.

 

::Awesome. Ya know that Earth thing, Valentine’s Day?::

 

A frisson of apprehension flickered through Prowl’s neural net at the question. Where was this going?

 

::I do. What of it?::

 

Prowl’s reply was cautious. Everything could go to slag very, very easily right now if he didn’t maneuver around his Battle Computer with extreme caution. He had too much to do without crashing and wasting wasting half the day in Med Bay.

 

::Em-Kay has jus’ been tellin’ meh of an interestin’ an’ uncommon tradition fer that par-tick-you-lah day::

 

Even over comms, Jazz’s voice sounded like that of a cat that had gotten itself shut in an aviary full of small, flightless birds. Extremely pleased with himself and so blasted smug he would be absolutely unbearable in person.

 

From his vorns of experience with Jazz Antics, Prowl could picture the _precise_ variation of Slag-Eating Grin that would no doubt be gracing the Saboteur’s faceplates right about now.

 

Since he was alone in his office, Prowl indulged himself in an ex-vent that was very much like an aggrieved sigh. By now Jazz was well aware of the limits that the Tac-Net and Battle Computer placed upon Prowl in regards to his ability to interact with others. Still, the irrepressible mech was intent on pressing their luck more often than was probably safe.

 

::And just what would this tradition be, Jazz?::

 

Prowl sent that in a carefully bland tone, one devoid of any and all emotional modulations.

 

::A Girls’ Night Out:: Came back cheerfully over the comm. ::Jus’ a group of friends getting’ together an’ hangin’ out. We’ll have some fun t’gether an’ celebrate all of us bein’ free of romantic attachments.::

 

Prowl processed this for a full minute, examining the concept from every possible angle.

 

::I. . . . See::

 

While he genuinely did see what Jazz meant, for the life of him Prowl couldn’t figure out just where this was going. He deliberately tried to think as little as possible about his friendship and definite NON-RELATIONSHIP with Jazz to avoid triggering the coding restrictions that would send the Tac-Net and Battle Computer into a spectacular crash. There was just one small issue currently niggling at the Battle Computer, though.

 

::You do realise that neither you nor I are human females, correct?::

 

Over the vorns of their association, Prowl had developed the ability to convey the idea of a raised optic ridge through tone of voice alone.

 

::Prowler; we’re not _human_ so th’ girls said it don’ matter. Aaanyway I was thinkin’ that since we all happen t’ have off-days on th’ 14 th and 15th, that mebby we should have ourselves a little get-t’gether on th’ 14th t’ just hang out an’ celebrate that none of us have to do all that mushy stuff::

 

Jazz positively twinkled with mischief over the commlink. With a nearly audible _clunk_ , comprehension bloomed in Prowl’s processor in a way that was completely harmless so far as upsetting the Battle Computer was concerned. Jazz had found a way for them to have a date-that-was-not-a-date and to be together on what was, honestly, a rather nauseatingly romantic day.

 

::I assume that by ‘We’ you are referring to yourself and Miss Banes. What did you two have in mind?::

 

Prowl wasn’t sure if he should be looking forward to this or preparing for imminent disaster. Anything that Jazz and Mikaela Banes planned together tended to be rather . . . _spectacular._ In any and  all senses of the word. Mikaela’s knowledge of contemporary American culture combined with Jazz’s well-honed party planning skills in some very interesting ways.

 

::Maggie’s just got back from Oz an’ she’s still on holiday, so Em-Kay suggested we all go down to Th’ Track an’ have a bit of a race. Loser supplies th’ highgrade for drinks and talkin’ after.::

 

Ok, Prowl could _definitely_ look forward to this. Ratchet was constantly on at him for not moving about as much has his Enforcer-built frame needed, even threatening to lock Prowl out of the Ark or set the Lamborghini Twins on him if he consistently failed to get enough physical activity.

 

A long-buried part of Prowl shuddered in pure delight at the mention of The Track.

 

The war builds had their underground coliseum-style training area for hand-to-hand combat and there were several firing ranges for the gunners. Then for those whose frames were built for speed and pursuit there was The Track. The Track wasn’t its official name, but characteristic human nicknaming had stuck it with the simple, descriptive moniker.

 

It was a large ground level area with drag strips for sprints and an asphalted, vaguely Daytona-inspired looping track for basic endurance. These civilised amenities only took up about a third of the area that had been allocated for The Track. Occupying the final two-thirds was a large off-roading area which contained a metalled dirt track unlike anything to have ever been found on Cybertron. This road wound around and through the heavily rutted sections of the more ‘hardcore’ off-roading area, providing a truly intoxicating challenge for anyone possessed of a need for speed.

 

The more he thought about it, the more convinced Prowl became that this idea was verging on genius.

 

::How do Miss Banes and Miss Masden benefit from the racing?::

 

Prowl was 90% certain that everything had been decided in advance and now all that was required was for him to agree to go. Jazz’s reply immediately confirmed this suspicion.

 

::They’ll ride wit’ us fer th’ warm-up laps, then hop out an’ play judges fer th’ real deal.::

 

There was a 75% likelihood that by now Jazz had kicked his pedes up onto his desk and was tilting his chair back while aiming that slag-eating grin at his own office ceiling. It was fifty-fifty as to whether Jazz had his servos behind his helm or was using them to illustrate his points to empty air as he conversed with Prowl.

 

::Would it be correct to assume you have already us sorted into appropriate teams for this endeavour?::

 

Prowl’s voice was dryly amused, even over the commlink. While chaos was Jazz’s stock-in-trade, in some things he was eminently predictable.

 

::Mech, ya know meh too well. When Em-Kay an I talked it ovah we figured that since Mags has broken more human laws, she’ll go wit’ you and Em-Kay will stick wit’ meh. Ya’ll keep Mags from breakin’ any more rules an’ Em-Kay can borrow one o’ Th’ Hatchets wrenches to keep meh in line::

 

A rich chuckle underlaid Jazz’s response. Prowl briefly wondered if the human gesture of face-palming would be appropriate in this situation.

 

It was absurd for Jazz to suggest that Mikaela would be able to lift a Ratchet-sized wrench, let alone wield it with force sufficient to pose enough of a threat to force the Saboteur to modulate his behaviour. The absurdity was probably the point, so Prowl forcibly reigned in his Battle Computer before the blatantly illogical statement made it pitch a fit.

 

::I believe what you mean to say is that since Maggie has spent less time with us she will be reassured by the sense of safety she subconsciously associates with my alt-mode. Whereas Mikaela has had more experience with Cybertronians and will thus be able to handle your usual shenanigans with greater composure::

 

::Ya wound meh, Prowler! D’ya _really_ think Ahm that connivin’?::

 

Excessive use of melodrama detected. 95% probability of Jazz having just faked a theatrical over-reaction to an imaginary chest wound to his empty office.

 

Prowl’s doorwings twitched with amusement. Few of the Autobots got his sense of humour. It wasn’t until some human soldiers introduced the Autobot SIC to British comedy shows that he realised some of their organic allies actually noticed when he was being deliberately humorous.

 

Pleasure at the prospect of the upcoming social event (Outing with friends, “Girls’ Night Out” **_Not a date_** ) prickled through Prowl’s systems, allowing him to slide some rare teasing past the Battle Computer’s restraints on his social interactions.

 

::No.::

 

:: _No?!_ ::

 

::At the very least, I believe the correct description would be ‘Positively Machiavellian’. Why _you_ of all mechs became an Autobot will forever elude me.::

 

There was a full three seconds of dead silence over the commlink before Jazz erupted into peals of laughter that hissed into static as the force of his mirth shorted his vocaliser.

 

::These people have been good for ya, Prowler. Ah’ll let Em-Kay an Mags know ‘bout th’ 14th. Meetcha at th’ gates at 1000.::

 

::That sounds excellent, Jazz. Thank you for going to the trouble of arranging this::

 

::Mah pleasure, Prowler. Ah’ll let ya get back t’ work now::

 

Even though he couldn’t see Jazz, Prowl was certain that the Saboteur was positively glowing with triumph right about now. Pushing his luck with the Battle Computer, Prowl made a calculated risk and borrowed a phrase he’d frequently overheard the human members of NEST use when one of their friends had inconvenienced them.

 

::By the way, Jazz? That was seven minutes. _Not_ five. You owe me.::

 

Smugly Prowl ignored the Saboteur’s flabbergasted splutters and cut the commlink.

 

As he returned his focus to the datapad patiently waiting on his desk, the Battle Computer helpfully supplied the information that there was a 15.7% chance he’d just managed to make Jazz fall out of his chair.


	2. The Track: Maggie and Mikaela

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last 1.5 weeks have been utter suckage, which means writing has suffered. Got something finished for the Webs 'Verse because I feel guilty about not being able to update the main story this week.
> 
> I feel like this needed someone else's eyes on it before posting, but I'm absolutely sick of staring at it. Let me know if there's any really nasty grammar things that need fixing?

:: Comm Speak::

 

 

# The Track: Maggie and Mikaela

 

A brisk winter breeze skimmed over the deserts of the Southwestern United States, tugging playfully at the clothing of the two young women. A blonde and a brunette who were perched in an observation tower on the edge of a massive dirt track and off-roading area, watching a silver Pontiac Solstice face off against a Dodge Charger with Police markings.

 

Neither of the human observers had fully acclimatised to the local climate yet, so to them it felt like a vaguely cool day in the middle of autumn. They talked idly to pass the time and watching the two alien visitors fly around the track as if Unicron himself was chasing them.

 

“So what’s the story with those two?” Maggie asked, waving a hand vaguely at the pair of mechs currently engrossed in destroying the dirt track.

 

After half an hour of aimless talk about work she’d given up trying to segue neatly onto the topic and decided to jump straight in. The wind caught at strands of sun-bleached hair that had come loose during the “warm up” laps and Maggie shoved them back behind her ears with a grumble. ‘ _Warm-up’ my arse_ , she thought grumpily.

 

For the warm-up laps Maggie had been riding with Prowl, Mikaela with Jazz. The general idea on base was the SIC who’d taken a Cop-car Alt would be the sanest of the Command Staff. Maggie figured it would be all good, right?

 

She had been so, _so_ wrong about that.

 

The instant Jazz’s taillights vanished around the first corner Prowl the ex-Enforcer had gone into all-out Pursuit Mode.

 

From that point onwards the only concessions he’d made to his human passenger were a safety harness snapping into place over top of Maggie’s seatbelt and not exceeding 150 km/hr on the unsealed road.

 

Well, not exceeding it by too much anyway. Most of the time Maggie had been more focused on _not dying_ than on checking Prowl’s speedometer.

 

“Whadda ya mean?” Mikaela was perched on the edge of the low wall enclosing their watchtower, blithely ignoring the fact that they were several meters up in the air atop a hill in the middle of Nowhere.

 

Maggie tried not to think about how high up they were. If either of them happened to fall out of the tower it would be a good hour’s drive before they reached a doctor, even with a Cybertronian-enhanced patrol car going at top speed flashing the red-and-blue lights. While each of them had a walkie-talkie for communicating with the Cybertronians when they were out of yelling distance, it really wouldn’t do much if either of them fell out of the tower and bashed their heads open.

 

“Everyone acts like they’re a thing, but when I asked Jazz he said it was ‘complicated’ and changed the subject.” The Aussie made a disgusted sound, crossing her arms and leaning back against one of the roof supports.

 

“You’ve known them longer than me. Is it ‘ _complicated-mech-things-you-stupid-mammals-won’t-understand-_ complicated’ or is it ‘ _complicated-_ complicated’.” Maggie made gratuitous use of air quotes, then cocked her head and put an eyebrow up. She was NOT going to let Mikaela wriggle out of answering this.

 

“Oh, right.” Mikaela was going to get some _serious_ revenge on Jazz for leaving the explanation to her. “Yeah, those two are complicated-complicated.”

 

The dark-haired young woman gripped the wooden guardrail she was sitting on and leaned back to get a better view of the goings-on at ground level. Jazz had just cut Prowl off, the enraged snarl of an alien-enhanced engine reaching the pair in the tower as the silver Solstice flashed his taillights cheekily.

 

“Wait, was that legal?” Maggie’s attention jumped back to the eight-wheel smackdown they were supposed to be judging.

 

“He didn’t leave the track, so _technically_ it’s not a foul.” Mikaela chewed her lip, thinking. “It’s kinda hard to see from here though, so I think we’ll have to dock half a point to be safe.” She flashed a sharklike grin at the Aussie.

 

“Bloody hell, you’re a nitpicker.” Maggie said approvingly, reaching for a chunk of chalk.

 

One of the human members of NEST had sourced a bunch of second-hand chalkboards that were usually used for keepings score at darts. Somehow they’d managed to get enough so that there was one nailed up in each viewing tower around The Track. The boards were used to tally points for competitions like the one currently in progress. They also made nice little unofficial gossip message boards.

 

“So; complicated-complicated.” Maggie pulled the conversation back on topic. “Ya gonna explain what that means?” Dropping the chalk, she brushed most of the dust from her hands and glared at the American.

 

“You know about Prowl’s Tac-Net and Battle Computer mods, right?” Mikaela asked cautiously, sincerely hoping that she didn’t have to explain _those_ to the Data Analyst as well.

 

“Too right! His ability to analyse makes the fastest computer I’ve ever worked with look like it was counting on its fingers!” Maggie’s eyes glazed over with pure techno-geek desire.

 

“Right. Prowl volunteered to have the mods installed when the Autobot tactical team couldn’t keep up with what the Decepticon strategists were doing.” Mikaela spoke quickly, trying to bring Maggie back from whatever Hacker Nirvana the reminder of Prowl’s Truly Superior Calculating Abilities had sent her to.

 

“Back then, the ‘Cons had pretty much _all_ the War-Builds and Soldiers. The Autobots just couldn’t compete.” She continued as taunting sirens rose briefly over the song of revving engines. “Prowl volunteered because they were experimental and out of everyone who could support the mods he had the highest probability of surviving the installation.”

 

“Bloody hell.” Maggie whispered, her blue-grey eyes going wide.

 

She’d known it had been bad for the Autobots, but not quite _how_ bad. She couldn’t wrap her head around the kind of desperation that would drive you to willingly have an untested, experimental organ _grafted_ _onto your brain_.

 

“Yeah.” Mikaela nodded soberly. “He’s incredibly lucky it worked. But when they came online, the Tac-Net and Battle Computer did some absolutely _nasty_ things to Prowl,” She made a sour face, remembering how many languages Ratchet had plundered for profanity during _this_ particular part of his lecture. “The logic trees they create are _insanely_ strict. It basically decided that relationships or friendships were too dangerous a liability to have during wartime. Prowl basically cut everyone off outside of work. The Mods wouldn’t let him do anything else.”

 

“So the Tac-Net turned him into a stone-cold asshole?” Maggie summed up the whole mess in one semi-rhetorical sentence.

 

“Yea, pretty much.” Mikaela confirmed glumly. “Once Ratchet figured out what was going on he started trying to tweak the coding. Prowl was miserable, he couldn’t control what he was doing and it hurt him as well as everyone he’d been close to.”

 

“Geeze that sucks.” The Aussie’s eyes tracked the dusty black-and-white Police car as he navigated an s-bend, wondering how on earth the mech had survived what Mikaela was describing.

 

 “Ratchet, Bluestreak and Prime were basically the only ones who stuck by him.” Suddenly Mikaela grinned, startling Maggie. “Actually, it was about the time Jazz was pulled back to Iacon that Ratchet made a breakthrough with the code and Prowl was able to have almost-normal friendships again.”

 

“Did it go about as well as I think it would have?” Gratefully latching on to the less depressing subject, Maggie snickered at the mental images it conjured. “The Wild Jazznado meets Grand Emperor Prickerson?”

 

Maggie immediately began making plans to get Bluestreak to spill the beans. The grey mech had a ton of stories she loved to soak up at every opportunity. Having been there to witness this clash of titans he was _bound_ to have all the juiciest gossip about _that_ little fiasco.

 

“Oh, _yes_.” Mikaela’s laugh echoed over the low hills. “At one point Ratchet basically had to weld Jazz to the _wall_ so he wouldn’t murder Prowl. _Eventually_ they realised Jazz had NO idea about what was going on, so Ratchet and Prime explained it to him several times with _very_ small words until it stayed in his processors.”

 

Maggie smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand, leaving a small chalk smudge.

 

“For someone smart enough to be TIC _and_ the head of Special Ops, that mech can be pretty bloody thick sometimes.” Maggie’s voice dripped with exasperation, making Mikaela laugh again.

 

“Oh you have _no_ idea.” Mikaela made mental notes on which stories to share later. “It gets better though.” She smirked evilly. Maggie caught the expression and leaned forward.

 

“Next thing you know, Jazz actually LOOKS at Prowl properly and all that loathing turned into the _biggest_ crush in the history of the universe.” Mikaela had seen an image capture of the look on Jazz’s faceplate when it finally hit him. Ratchet had a goldmine of blackmail material and didn’t hesitate to share it with his apprentice when she needed it.

 

“You’re kidding!” Maggie exclaimed in astonishment. At the shake fo a brunette head, she groaned. “Geeze, that’s more cheap bloody drama than Home and Away!”

 

“And it gets _worse_.” Mikaela positively glowed with schadenfreude at Maggie’s discomfort. “You remember those logic trees, right? Well Ratchet and Prowl did some really complicated fiddling just to get them to accept friendships, but they can’t get the Tac-Net to take anything more than that. Just _thinking_ about anything more emotionally invested than ‘just friends’ during a state of war sends him into a MASSIVE crash”

 

“I’ve seen him lock up a coupla times. Is it worse than that?” Puzzlement crossed the blonde’s face as she shifted against her backrest.

 

“Ratchet ran some simulations of what could happen if they made those changes to the Tac-Net and Battle Computer base coding.” Mikaela’s voice was deadly serious. “Apparently the best outcome had Prowl reduced to a vegetable.”

 

“Prowl the Parsnip.” Maggie shuddered. It was a horrifying idea to contemplate. “So what’s their plan?”

 

“Basically wait until the war is over, in the meantime trying not to trigger Prowl’s mods into freaking out and turning him into a mindless shell.” Mikaela watched as her friend’s face reflected the same sadness she’d felt when Ratchet told her the same thing. “It’s pretty much all they can do.”

 

“Bugger!” Maggie couldn’t think of anything else to say.

 

She looked thoughtfully out over The Track as the pair of mechs under discussion came back into view. Prowl was in the lead this time, red-and-blue lights flashing gleefully as Jazz tried to slip past him on the straight.

 

“So, this _isn’t_ a date for them, then?” The Aussie finally asked, watching the extremely dangerous high-speed manoeuvres the Praxian executed in an attempt to fend his opponent off.

 

“Definitely NOT a date. And we are _not_ their wingmen.” Mikaela said, putting extra emphasis on the negatives. Then a thought struck her and she laughed. “We so _aren’t_ qualified to be chaperones.”

 

Maggie cackled at the mental images that conjured, before something the SIC did made her jaw drop right down to ground level.

 

“Holy SHIT did you see that?!” She shrieked, forgetting how high the watchtower was and darting forward to hang over the side for a better view.

 

“Yeah. Wow, I didn’t know Prowl could drift!” Mikaela said in a voice full of awe.

 

Prowl had executed a textbook-perfect drift manoeuvre around the hairpin bend breaking up the straight section of track, front wheels skimming the very edge of the road. Jazz had slowed to take the turn at a safer speed, figuring that the usually cool-headed Prowl would do the same.

 

The Ex-Enforcer’s chosen course of action took the silver Solstice completely by surprise. Jazz fishtailed his way out of the bend, screeching tyres fountaining dust and loose gravel as he fought to remain on the road. As the Saboteur struggled, Prowl whooped his sirens derisively and shot away, using Jazz’s astonished flailing to increase his lead.

 

“Ok, Prowl gets a solid ten for that one.” Mikaela said as Maggie reached blindly for the chalk.

 

“Bloody _oath_.” Maggie breathed as she made the relevant notes. “And we’ll say minus two for Jazz for bolloxing up the corner like that. His eyes should be on the road, not Prowl’s aft!” Now she knew what was going on, Maggie felt more comfortable joining in the gentle ribbing everyone aimed at the not-couple.

 

“Make it three. This _isn’t_ a date so he _shouldn’t_ be aft-watching” Mikaela said primly, sitting up straight and crossing her legs.

 

“Too right. This is a Cultural Exchange Event and the Chief Medical Officer’s Orders.” Maggie employed a posh British accent as she erased and re-wrote the number on Jazz’s side of the board.

 

“Getting Prowl to go outside, before The Hatchet descends on his office and he _has_ to move just to escape!” Mikaela sniggered. As an assistant to Ratchet she had no problem picturing _exactly_ what the medic would do to his target.

 

“So how does Prowl not realise what’s going on and have the mods throw a wobbly?” Maggie’s voice was full of curiosity. “I _know_ he’s not thick, so how does something like this even work?”

 

“Ratchet said that so long as Prowl can convince the Battle Computer that this is ‘just a friend thing’ then he’ll be fine.” Mikaela explained. “He and Jazz have gotten pretty creative at finding strictly platonic things to do together that everyone else would call dates.”

 

“Wow; that’s some next-level kind of bullshit artistry right there.” Maggie’s Aussie accent became more noticeable as she eyed the black-and-white blur with a hefty dose of respect for his clawing some semblance of normal life out of war and restrictive coding.

 

“Yeah, he makes Orwell’s Doublethink look like a chocolate-covered kid denying all knowledge of the candy jar.” Mikaela said, earning a shocked look from Maggie. “What?! Just ‘cause I’m an Evil Jock Concubine with a juvie record it _doesn’t_ mean I’m stupid.” She crossed her arms defensively, glaring at the other woman.

 

“Honestly mate, I’m just shocked you made it through that book without falling asleep.” Maggie met the glare with a serious expression for as long as she could, then her lips started twitching.  “When they made us read it for school I couldn’t make it through a page without falling asleep.”

 

“Yeah, well, with how I got my record I really know how Winston felt.” Bitterness soaked through the American’s voice at the memory.

 

“So why didn’t you go to Uni with Sam?” Maggie stuffed down the urge to give her friend a sympathetic hug, unsure of how it would be received and instead asked a question she was genuinely curious about. “It sounds like you took school stuff a lot more seriously than he did.”

 

“He wanted me to go with him so he could show off _his_ hot girlfriend and _his_ hot car.” Mikaela put extra emphasis on the possessive pronouns, snorting derisively.

 

“I would’ve been the trophy girl. There to show everyone what he could score and being his little ego-boost. You’d think that after saving the world he wouldn’t have any self-esteem issues left.” She rolled her eyes and shifted to look back out over the track again to hide the resentment in her expression.

 

“Plus, if I’d gone everyone would assume I’d only gotten in because the Government pulled strings for me too, NOT because I was smart enough to do it myself.” Even though Miakela was facing away from her, the winter wind carried the words clearly to Maggie’s ears. “ _Then_ they’d say I’d _fucked_ my way to good marks. Like I couldn’t pass any other way.” Mikaela’s hands tightened on the wood of the lookout until her scarred knuckles turned white.

 

“Working with Ratchet is _perfect_. Instead of sending me to College the Government wiped my record and helped set Dad up with a legal job.” Without seeing her face, it was still obvious how much this meant to Mikaela. “When they’re on leave the NEST guys make sure he has plenty of business, and I get one of the coolest jobs around, working with people who _respect_ me.” She turned back to face the Aussie and grinned evilly “If they don’t, the ‘Bots have _no_ problems educating them if I’m not around to do it myself.”

 

Both women laughed then, the sound drifting out over the track. Maggie had been the beneficiary of some rather foul-mouthed tirades from Mudflap and Skids in the past when some idiot data jockey thought she was there to look pretty and make the coffee. Afterwards, she’d talked the Powers That Be into a little Outback holiday for the twins as a thank-you present. Sure they were aggravating and immature, but their hearts –or rather, their sparks- were definitely in the right place. Maggie had the sneaking suspicion that the pair now considered themselves to be the guardians of her honour or something.

 

::Hey, are ya payin’ attention up there?!:: Jazz’s indignant voice crackled out of the walkie-talkie hanging from a lanyard around Mikaela’s neck.

 

“We are.” She replied, holding down the mic button and tossing a wink at Maggie. “You’re getting your aft handed to you, by the way.”

 

::Ahm _WHAT?!_ :: Jazz’s voice crackled out into static as he negotiated an s-bend, accelerating dangerously to close with Prowl. ::Are ya givin’ him Pity Points or somethin’ ‘cause he never gets his aft outta th’ office?::

 

“Nah mate, it’s all above-board.” Maggie replied using her own walkie-talkie. “Prowl is just _that_ good.” The frequency designated for The Track was basically a one-room Comms conversation, so Prowl could hear what they were saying. Inspired, she added “We miiight be docking extra for distracted driving.”

 

::Ya _evil_ little slaggers!:: The Saboteur yelped.

 

::They are quite correct in doing so, Jazz.:: Prowl cut in, his richly amused voice emerging from both walkie-talkies ::Distracted drivers are dangerous, be they Human or Cybertronian.::

 

Down on the track, Prowl’s dust-covered taillights blinked asynchronously at Jazz as he gunned his engine and increased his lead on the Solstice.

 

“I hate to break it to you, but you kept your optics on the road instead of Prowl’s superior posterior you’d be doing a lot better out there, Jazzman.” Mikaela’s grin was pure evil.

 

The Apprentice Medic knew precisely how much trash-talk Prowl’s Battle Computer could cope with before it crashed. She was going to enjoy every second acclimating the SIC to what was an unavoidable part of social interactions with NEST personnel, and doing so at Jazz’s expense.

 

“Yeah mate. I don’t know much about cars but if I had to make a choice between staring at you or Prowl all the way up to Darwin, I’d pick the crazy coppa any day.” Maggie chimed in, ignoring the strands of hair that had come loose again and were whipping around her face. “He’s just superior in general, and that includes his taste in Alt-modes.”

 

The strategy Ratchet had worked out was simple: Mikaela made the more potentially risqué jabs and Maggie defused them. They weren’t to make more than three or four of these kinds of mild verbal sorties over the course of the day, to give Prowl time to process it.

 

::Ah’ll show ya _superior_ :: Jazz growled, cutting his transmission to the walkie-talkies with a rude sound and another burst of static.

 

The saboteur’s engine roared a challenge as he swerved wildly up past Prowl to dash away up the road. His tyres weren’t exactly the best for loose road surfaces, but you didn’t head Special Operations without having learned to navigate any obstacle thrown at you.

 

The score-keepers exploded with laughter as Prowl engaged his sirens and tore after Jazz, processors distracted by _quarry_ and _chase_ instead of letting the Battle Computer chew on what had just been said.

 

This had been an _excellent_ idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at writing rally car stuff. And yes, you did need all that exposition. Vital universe stuff. Sorry it bogged this chapter down, Maggie wouldn't stop asking questions and after a few days I gave up fighting her on it.
> 
> Could you tell how much I hate Sam Witwickey? He had his moments of decency in the bay movies but I felt they were too few and far between to really redeem him.


	3. The Bonfire: All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Firelight, booze, junk food and revelations about Praxus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST ONE LAST ONE LAST ONE!
> 
> Publishing NOW before it reaches the over-edited stage. It IS possible to over-edit something and I didn't want to accidentally kill the fun :/
> 
> *Throws chapter and runs*

# The Bonfire: All

Mikaela stretched grateful hands towards the heat of their little bonfire. It was more like the “Two-Star Workshop Heaters” her dad used to make than an actual bonfire but it was warm so she didn’t really care. Who would have thought the desert could get so _cold?_

 

Their ‘bonfire’ was a combination of driftwood and broken supply crates, crackling merrily away in a ten-gallon drum that had holes knocked in the sides to allow air to get to the fire and ash to escape from the bottom. It was wedged firmly upright with a circle of river rocks in the exact centre of a firebreak Prowl had pedantically cut a in the event of a burning coal escaping.

 

The entire time the Tactician had been carefully removing sections of turf Maggie complained about the delay, pointing out that there was a river RIGHT THERE for crying out loud and couldn’t they just get the bloody thing going already?! Jazz and Mikaela avoided the issue entirely, locating river-smoothed driftwood logs large enough to provide both Humans and Cybertronians with comfortable seating.

 

Maggie didn’t seem terribly concerned by the way the already chilly temperature suddenly dropped through the ground when the sun set, snapping little twigs off a pair of straight-ish branches while Mikaela glared and huddled into her jacket. Apparently that kind of abrupt temperature change was something that happened fairly often in her part of Australia, so the blonde was fairly used to it.

 

Neither of the Cybertronians were bothered by the current temperature. They sat on a pair of driftwood logs Jazz had found. The huge, sun-bleached trunks of trees had been torn out of the distant mountains and carried downriver until they ended up on this stretch of pebbly riverside to be repurposed as seating.

 

Maggie and Mikaela were sitting on small boulders (Or very large rocks) rolled up to the opposite side of the firedrum. Before leaving the base all present had equipped themselves with thick pieces of foam scavenged from worn-out berth pads destined for recycling. These foam chunks made _perfect_ campfire cushions.

 

The warm light of the bonfire made Jazz look like some exotic impressionist sculpture in light and metal as he lounged on his makeshift seat, speakers transformed out and flicking through songs at random. Prowl sat as upright as ever, occasional reflections from the black-painted sections of his frame the only thing keeping him from looking like a floating head accompanied by a random collection of white blocks. The optical illusion created by his paintjob occasionally sent the women into drunken fits of giggles as the night wore on.

 

Nobody present wanted to broach the subject of just how the silver mech had gotten them this bonfire and camping permit. While it was perfectly legal, his methods of persuasion were questionably ethical on the best of days. It was better to smile, nod and hope that vorns of being around Optimus had somehow contaminated the mech with a _few_ more morals than he’d originally possessed before joining the Autobots.

 

“So what are you two contributing to the ‘Cultural Exchange’ part of today?” Mikaela asked, popping the lid off a label-less brown bottle. “ _We’ve_ brought the general concept of a ‘Girls’ Night Out’ and some outdoor cuisine. What have you got?”

 

Prowl’s doorwings twitched, the white-painted sections of his frame appearing to hang unsupported in the night. He looked more than a little startled by the question, processor obviously jerked back into action from the happily relaxed state half a cube of victory high-grade had put him in.

 

“Don’ worry Prowler. I’ve got ya covered.” Jazz said genially. “Ah translated a few of th’ _fun_ songs from Polyhex inta English an dug a few Praxian Drinkin’ games outta mah memory banks that th’ girls will be able to play with us.”

 

“Wait, did you say drinking games?” Mikaela looked disbelievingly at the silver mech, one eyebrow nearly vanishing into her hair. “The place that produced _Prowl_ has _drinking games_.”

 

“Pull the other one, Jazz.” Maggie snorted. “It’s got bells on it.”

 

“You forget that Smokescreen and Bluestreak _also_ come from Praxus.” Amusement was clear in Prowl’s tone. It was always entertaining to disillusion humans like this and his position as SIC didn’t let him do it very often. “I assure you; Smokescreen had to start with _something_.”

 

“Now all I can picture is Smokescreen playing beer pong.” Mikaela wrinkled her nose, trying to scrub the image from her mind as Jazz snickered. “Ugh. It’s _not_ a good thing.”

 

“I’m just glad we’re not playing ‘Gee I never’” Maggie said, poking at their fire drum and throwing another piece of wood in. “I have a feeling that Jazz would be absolutely smashed before the rest of us even got tipsy.”

 

“I am afraid that any attempt made by us to abide by the rules of that particular game would require more highgrade than is currently available.” With his lipplates quirked into a subtle Prowl-smirk, the Praxian continued “There is very little in the way of Cybertronian experiences that Jazz has not encountered at some point in his life-cycle.”

 

“Was that a burn?” Maggie whispered, the alcohol in her system and lack of familiarity with Prowl’s pronunciation made the tangle of words hard to pick through.

 

“That _was_ a burn.” Mikaela confirmed, passing the Aussie a full bottle when she saw that Maggie’s had been emptied and rolled into the firebreak. Maggie took the fresh bottle and saluted her friend cheerfully.

 

“Yeah, but Ah _am_ Spec’Ops.” Jazz said smugly, “Knowing how t’ do nearly everythin’ is part of th’ job description.”

 

“So does that mean we shouldn’t play against ‘Bee or Mirage, either?” Mikaela asked while Maggie took a long swallow from her new bottle.

 

At the mention of Bumblebee’s name Maggie choked. If she hadn’t already swallowed her mouthful there would have been a very undignified Australian rum-and-coke fountain.

 

“’BEE?!” She shrieked in abject horror as everyone else laughed.

 

“Yup, ‘Bee.” Jazz chortled. “’Though he an’ Mirage combined couldn’t touch _mah_ expertise. Oh! Ah almos’ forgot!” Jazz smacked the heel of his hand into his forehelm, just missing his visor.

 

“Forgot what?” Maggie asked, picking at the label on her bottle.

 

“This.” Jazz said, reaching into one of his many subspace pockets.  “Here ya go Prowler; catch!” Grinning, the silver mech tossed a box in the general direction of the Praxian.

 

“What is this?” Prowl asked, curiosity warring with caution and some uneasy twitches from his Battle Computer.

 

Slowly, the black and white mech turned the box over in his hands to examine it from every angle. The pair of young women watched the scene play out, Mikaela slowly reaching into her bag. Going for her phone in case Prowl crashed _bad_ and she needed to alert Ratchet.

 

The box was rectangular, about the length of a human arm on the longer sides and half that length on the shorter sides. It wasn’t very sturdily built, being made of plywood and held closed with a length of plain rope which was tied in a neat bow.

 

_Nothing_ of value would be kept in a box like that.

 

“Ya said I owed ya for takin’ up too much time th’ other day when Ah persuaded yah t’ come on this little trip.” Jazz explained, “Ahm payin’ ya back wit’ _that_.”

 

The explanation went a long way towards Prowl’s peace of mind. Jazz was settling a light-hearted debt between friends. The Tactician had observed this as part of normal interactions between mechs who were close friends before the war and between the humans on Earth. This was _not_ something for the Battle Computer to pitch a fit over.

 

Prowl undid the rope bow with agonizing slowness, buying time to repeatedly shove the innocence of the situation into his Tac-Net and Battle Computer until both mods subsided with a grumble. Jazz was grinning fit to split his face in half and where his EM field brushed Prowls it was so thick with smug anticipation that Prowl was moderately surprised it didn’t smother the fire.

 

“Oh _come on_ mate, open it already!” Maggie complained loudly, carefully setting her half-peeled bottle down and leaning forward. “I wanna see what you got besides the bloody box!”

 

“If you insist.” Prowl said mildly, letting the rope hang from his hand while removing the loose-fitting lid with a flourish.

 

Mikaela’s hand closed over her phone and she held her breath as Prowl’s optics flickered. Sure, Jazz could contact Ratchet directly via commlink, but she was under strict orders to hit the hot key which would send a pre-programmed text message directly to Ratchet the _instant_ Prowl showed signs of a crash. The tactician’s optics steadied, and then brightened as he turned an incredulous look on the Saboteur. Releasing the breath she had been holding, Mikaela let the phone slip from her fingers and back into the depths of her bag.

 

“So what’s in it?” Mikaela asked, pulling a large package of marshmallows out of her bag as an excuse for fumbling around for so long.

 

Without a word Prowl delicately lifted something from the box and held it up, examining it in the firelight. Both humans were completely baffled. It looked something like a lumpy two-by-four dipped in fine, reddish-brown gravel. Maggie looked expectantly at Mikaela, expecting the woman with more experience of Cybertronians and the weird things they do to be able to explain it to her. Mikalea shrugged, signalling that she was as utterly lost as the Aussie.

 

“Rust sticks.” Prowl said, doorwings vibrating subtly. “They are a form of candy.” Turning the rust stick this way and that in the firelight, the look on Prowl’s faceplates was absolutely priceless as he gazed at the rare luxury.

 

“Isn’t rust bad, though?” Maggie asked.

 

“Says the person drinkin’ a known poison for _fun._ ” Jazz said sardonically, flashing his visor in a teasing wink to take the sting from his words.

 

“The coating on these is a form of ferrous oxide. It is totally different from the various forms of infection and tissue necrosis we experience that you also refer to with the English word ‘Rust’.” Prowl said, finally putting the rust stick between his denta to snap off a bite. “It is also quite tasty. How did you manage to get your hands of fresh ones, Jazz?”

 

“Ah know a mech who knows a mech who also knows a chemist. An’ that mech happened to owe meh a few favours.” Jazz sat back on his makeshift seat and sipped his cube of high-grade, looking extremely pleased with himself. “Figured th’ best way t’ pay ya back was with **junk food**.” The last two words were emphasised slightly, making them sound out-of-place.

 

“ _Speaking_ of which;” Maggie dug in her backpack for a few seconds, coming up with a packet of biscuits that she tossed to Mikaela. “Here’s your Tim-tams; fresh from the bottom of the world. _Now_ are you going to teach me how to make those ‘samore’ things?”

 

“OH MY GOD!” Mikaela shrieked and _snatched_ the pack of chocolate biscuits out of the air before hugging them to her chest. She put on as great a display of dignity as a person could be capable of while possessively stroking a packet of biscuits. “Yes, your bribe is acceptable.”

 

There was absolutely no way that the carefully orchestrated little scene was completely spontaneous. Nonetheless, it helped put the last nail in the coffin so far as Prowl’s Mods were concerned. The significance of this particular day, the mech he was here with and the gift of rust sticks all slotted neatly into the harmless configurations of Acceptable/Platonic/Friendship-Interactions/Culture and Traditions [SubCats: Cybertron-Polyhex; Earth-Australia; Earth-USA]

 

Amused, Prowl watched Mikaela tuck her prized packet of biscuits away carefully and retrieve another bottle of the mildly toxic beverage she had been consuming, along with the components required for the campfire cookery class. He let the rust stick melt slowly in his mouth, the full, rich flavour bringing back bittersweet memories of long-destroyed Praxus.

 

An obnoxiously loud crunching noise broke into Prowls reverie, inevitably coming from his left where the saboteur was seated. His glare was met with an innocent expression and the sight of a rust stick hanging from Jazz’s mouthplates like a forgotten cigarette. There was a second plywood box sitting on the silver minibot’s knee, lid askew to reveal that it was also filled with reddish-brown sticks.

 

“What?!” Jazz asked in a tone of injured innocence, removing the rust stick from his mouthplates to twirl it through his fingers with a cheeky look at Prowl as the humans laughed. “Ah wasn’t goin’ to pull in favours for jus’ _one_ box of rust sticks now, was Ah?”

 

Prowl ex-vented a sigh and shook his head, taking another bite of his unfinished rust stick instead of replying. There was no way sane mechs could keep up with Jazz when he was in one of these moods.

 

The sound of Jazz’s delighted laughter filled the night. Prowl was just _so_ predictable when it came to these things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Let me know what you think, ok?


End file.
